


Papers, Please

by jenna_thorn



Category: Blackadder, Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Baldrick, why are you wearing a tea towel?"<br/>"I've been informed that I'm a House Elf, sir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Papers, Please

"It's not as though it's the first time you've tupped a man's wife, m'lord."  
"No, but it is the first time I've tupped a crime lord's daughter. Which in fact, does _not_ seem to be the problem but rather the fact that she thought I was a courier for Interpol and thus have caused his immediate downfall and imminent incarceration."  
"Ah then."  
"Quite right. Which is why we find ourselves cowering in a chemist's across from King's Cross, clutching our passports like security blankets, watching for Nordic gods carrying concealed weapons or black limousines with tinted windows."  
"So not the rumpy-pumpy?"  
"No, simple mistaken identity."  
"Bit of a bother, that."  
"Considering it's what got me into her bed in the first place…no, still not worth it."  
"But wait, my lord. I have a cunning plan."  
"With suitably low expectations, let's hear it."  
"We go to King's Cross and take the first train out of town until the police catch up with him."  
"That _is_ a cunning plan and coincidentally enough, is also _my_ cunning plan, which would explain why I am here trying to avoid the man with the bulging jacket leaning against the big black auto. I have no idea why you are here."  
"It's your plan?"  
"Yes, Balders."  
"In that case, my lord, all I have is a turnip."  
"The words 'oh' and 'bugger' would seem to be most appropriate at this time."

A hastily worded prayer did no good, and a quicker curse had no effect, but somewhere between heaven and hell, someone heard his frantic plea for help and an oversized lorry with vegetation smeared on the rails careening through lanes made for welcome diversion and Blackadder darted across the intersection, not surprised to find that his ever-present companion had followed him more nimbly than any onlooker would have suspected.

\---:::---

"Dover, yes lovely. No,no, he's with me. Unfortunately." Edmund slid the twice the price of his life under the grille to a bored teen and grimaced as non-threateningly as possible. Stepping away, he muttered. "We'll swim if we have to, eh? Hope you brought your trunks, Balders."  
"I don't have trunks, m'lord, but me auntie used to say that a coating of pig grease was more useful anyway."  
"Ah, and that's an image I'd willingly replace with the artist's gallery at a convention of earwax sculptors, thank you Baldric."  
"They have conventions? And here I thought it was just a hobby."  
"Platform Nine, Baldric, do come quickly."

Edmund hesitated, running his appreciative eye over a not-quite modestly-clad young woman with shockingly pink hair until he noticed that she was similarly appreciatively eyeing a dark haired broad shouldered man in a retailored business suit that strained to cover both his odin-equese shoulders and the armpit holster tucked under them and he hastily stepped behind a woman bent over a pram. But he had forgotten the dangers of suburban women with sensible shoes and she backed hard into him at the barest, briefest touch of his legs against hers and he stumbled back, into Baldric, pushing them both against the platform dividers between Platforms Nine and Ten. Or at least…where the platform should have been.

\---:::---

The girl with the pink hair and the miniskirt followed soon after, tripping over his feet, then kicking them out of the gaping black nothing they were still in and Baldric gave him a greasy hand up. She said, "I was wondering if you were going to miss the train. Come along, we are headed out of the country now." She spoke into the tip of a stick in her hand, "Kingsley, he's here and he's…" but the rest of her words were lost in the shriek of escaping steam from a gaudily painted old fashioned engine.  
"Is this the train to Dover, my lord?"  
"It's the train to bloody-well-not-here. In you go." Blackadder snarled.

They found themselves nearly alone on the train. Several of the cars near the locomotive were occupied by a scattering of old women trying to be crones, complete with requisite tatty crocheted shawls and grayed button-up boots. Clearly from a different neighborhood than his own, where the women tended toward track suits and age was counted not in wrinkles, but in the thin demarcation of accumulated facelift scars. Sometimes, it was good to be rich. And if this worked out, he could survive the next three to five weeks to go home again. And never never sleep with another blonde. Ever. They settled into a compartment alone, Baldric running his hands over the aged velvet happily, Edmund eyeing the stains of what he hoped were chocolate near the window.

The pink haired girl shadowed by her exact physical opposite threw herself into he compartment. "See, I told you, whole and hearty, right professor?"

The man's voice rumbled in the same timbre as the roll of the tracks beneath them. "Professor Eagerthenisugh, I am relieved to see you unhurt. We had thought you trapped by McNair and his men. I'll call off the rescue immediately. Your bags should arrive before we do. You'll have a few days to prepare before the students arrive."  
"Students? Yes, yes, of course. The students. Right. Always good to have a little time to prepare for them, uh, that. Yes."  
"Kingsley, go ahead. I need to fix my face," she said and he nodded, then disappeared with a sharp noise. She winked and transformed before Blackadder's stunned eyes, her nose pushing out, her cheeks sagging into jowls, her pink hair fading to silver-grey. "Ta!" the new figure called out incongruously and she too, vanished.  
"I don't suppose you have an explanation for this, Baldric? An explanation that rivals the greatest of historical philosophic arguments in its dizzying use of logic and precise language."  
"Um, not really m'lord."  
"I thought as much."

The roar of the train shrieking into a picturesque stop didn't inspire philosophy, though it did rather engender a sense of vacationing, picture post perfect as it was, down to the antique usher and the crones gabbling as they exited.

A forbidding figure in emerald green swirl of a cloak accented with what was possibly the ugliest tartan to escape Braveheart swooped to a halt before them. "Welcome to Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the Scotswoman said.   
"Ah now, m'lord. Now it all makes sense. They's witches, they is."  
"Yes, and so am I, obviously, so shut up."  
"You're a witch? Funny that I never noticed."   
She continued, with an arch look at their whispering, "We've been expecting you. I'm pleased to find that the .. unpleasantness Didn't disturb your journey. We've sent people to cover for the accident. I'm glad to see that you are well; our initial reports were … distressing."  
A giant of a man, a mountain of a man, loomed over the three of them. "Ah there, professor. There 'ye are. Well get you settled in a jiffy, see that we don't." And Edmund found himself manhandled into a carriage drawn by a horse as rendered by a suicidal pen and ink specialist working in watercolors for the first time after a three day bender involving copious amounts of wood alcohol, a bucket of spiders, and a bolt of black linen.   
"The horse has fangs."  
"Well, of course it does, perfessor."  
"I'll just close my eyes for a moment, then, shall I?"  
But the view from the carriage window as they rounded the lake was worth facing the combination of rag-clad mountain and the nightmare drawing the carriage. What he had taken for ruins melted into a fairy-tale castle, no Disney pastel but a conglomeration of towers and swards and lethal looking arrow slits. The problem with the Hollywood castles is that they believed Mad King Ludwig and forgot that a castle is, at its heart, a weapon. A stationary one, albeit, but a weapon. A place of refuge in time of war. Luckily for him, he'd left his own conflict on the other end of the magical train's track. There couldn't possibly be any war here. He settled back in the cushions with a contented sigh.  
\---:::---  
His sense of contentment followed him through the cavernous entry, along a hallway that must have dated to the first Elizabeth's reign, and through a classroom to a small suite of rooms and Baldric waiting for him dressed impossibly. He considered asking and decided to examine his surroundings to give himself a moment to brace for the answer. The desk held a collection of papers authorizing one Edgar Eagerthenisugh to become professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardly for an annual salary stated in nonsense, room and board for the period of one school year, to be released from contract in June, with an option to renew.

"June, eh? I doubt we'll be here that long, as surely Mr Eagerthenisugh will arrive to boot us out, but until then, Baldrick, I think we can consider ourselves on a vacation from reality." He put both feet on the desk and skimmed the introduction to the book in his hands. "Muggles, eh? We've rather lucked out there. I can use a ballpoint pen with the best of them." He flipped to the end of the book. As of its printing, Neville Chamberlain was Prime Minister and Germany was the Wiemar Republic which put it on the same level as any textbook in public use. Finally he couldn't stand not looking any more. "Baldrick, why are you wearing a tea towel?"  
"I've been informed that I'm a House Elf, sir."  
The book offered no further explanation.  
"You know, I'm willing to overlook that given the circumstances. Baldrick, we caught a lucky break. We've an entire school year of room and board in exchange for spending days discussing the telly with schoolchildren and we are completely unfindable by Malkov, his henchmen or even Interpol."   
The door slammed open to display Professor McGonagall in a dizzying flutter of tartan. "Oh there you are. There's been another attack. We need you to interpret the Muggle coverage to find out what really happened."  
"Attack?"  
"The Dark Lord, of course. Good heavens, man, you can't have accepted the position without knowing that Hogwarts' is at the center of the Death Eaters' attentions. After all, Harry Potter is here." She left in a flurry of skirts and plaid atrocity.  
Edmund sank into the desk chair, dismal certainty settling with familiar weight in his stomach. "Baldrick, we've avoided a Russian druglord and are in the middle of a magical war."  
"Well, sir, like you said, that's your luck."  
"Yes, yes it is, thank you for reminding me that once again it is time to flip two fingers at Fate."  
\---:::---  
The next four days were a whirl of activity, explaining in staff meetings that while natural gas leaks _were_ quite dangerous, they did not normally leave a green cloud marking the leak and they very seldom occurred on farmland and while London had its usual assortment of scavengers in the Underground, anything large enough to take down two transit authority personnel was not, in fact, a sewer rat, evading questions on how he managed to escape the attack on him while wondering loudly as to the identification of the poor unfortunate neighbor who was caught in the freak accident in Eagerthenisugh's kitchen, reading the Muggle text as well as the pitiful selection of Muggle Studies texts in the library ( _The Squib's Guide to Muggles_ and _Without a Wand: Exile on Earth_ were helpful and less than, respectively) and discovering a whole new group of people to browbeat, disdain, or cower from. He'd had three encounters with the Potions Master, and he still wasn't sure which category to fit the man into. It was most vexing. Their first encounter had been a brushing by in the hall that had left Edmund watching Snape from the rear and considering investing in big black robes to flap about for dramatic effect. The second was conducted in grunts and slurred monosyllabic forced pleasantries that degenerated into arm-wrestling for the marmalade at brekkers. And yet, the man was a minor inconvenience compared to the squawking Scottish goose who seemed to appear from 'round the corner every time he picked his nose or scratched his ass or whistled anything remotely off key. All of which simply meant that a well earned though physically impossible diatribe on the idea of strategy was an inevitable draw for her presence.  
He stormed back to his suite, the confusion of the Sorting Hat's song and the cheering of the students still ringing in his ears. "..headed by a bleeding great idiot."  
"You are aware you are walking through a school hall and uttering disrespectful things of its headmaster, its teachers, and the school caretaker." McGonagall appeared before him as though by, well, magic.  
"All of whom are going to be bloody lumps of cooling clay should there be an actual attack. Vague warnings of ancient stones and ancient rivalry isn't helping the matter."  
"Your concern for our students safety is commendable." McGonagall smiled at him warmly.  
He couldn't allow her misapprehension to continue,"My concern for my own hide is understandable."  
"You are aware," she hissed, "there are impressionable children about." Snape loomed over her shoulder as though stepping from the shadows themselves.  
"It's damned time they learned how to survive." Blackadder snarled.  
Snape chuckled, "That's the first thing out of your mouth that I've agreed with."  
"Don't get complacent."  
"I shan't." Snape batwinged off and McGonagall stalked in a huff in the opposite direction. Edmund used the walk back to his rooms to calculate how long an Interpol investigation would take and whether he'd still be needed for questioning or if they'd manage to accidently lose the key on Rushkin's cell without his help.

Probably not. Best muddle through 'til hols to make sure. At least the food was good. He flung the door with all his strength, but it thumped shut softly, conspiring to disappoint him, as all things here did.

"Baldric, I don't suppose you have any clever ideas."  
"I've come up with a plan to run a teakettle through a series of pulleys from the hearth into the bath, m'lord."  
"And we see yet again why I'm the planner and you. .. are still wearing the table linen. Baldrick, is there any chance of my convincing you to stop wearing the tea towel?'"  
"Certainly, sir," he reached to unpin the towel  
"Oh dear god no, I meant replacing it, with pants, a sarong, a plastic bag, anything."  
"If I wear clothes, I'm free of your service, m'lord."  
"If it were only so simple. Tea, Baldric, I need to think."   
"About what m'lord?"  
"Survival. And mistaken identity, and how we are going to get out of here without blood on my hands. And especially not my own. On second thought. Make that wine. I need to _not_ think for a moment."  
\---:::---  
Clearly the twinkling old fool and his tartan harpy weren't going to take charge, so Edmund was forced to take matters into his own hands. Or teacup, as it were. Well, not his _own_ obviously.  
"Be that as it may, Professor Snape," Fudge whined, "We simply cannot have these kinds of accidents. One would think you were up to something devious, something dire, something not in keeping with this venerable institution."  
Snape looked pained. Perhaps he was trying for sincere. If so, it was rather obviously a new look for him. "Minister, I assure you that the headmaster," who was nodding off on the divan "and the staff have taken all possible precaution for the safety of our students."  
"And that includes the detonation of explosives within the halls to what aim, please?"  
Blackadder smiled and imagined he could actually see Snape's temper fray like a rope rubbing against something metal. Metal and also possibly sharp and toothy or rusty. Snape took another breath, but was silenced by Fudge's outraged cry of "I've been poisoned."  
"Actually you've been potioned," Blackadder smiled as Dumbledore lurched to his feet.  
Snape's dry tone cut across the babble of noise, "No, he's been poisoned."  
"Well, I didn't meant to do _that_." Blackadder watched in some concern as the Minister fell backwards, twitched twice, coughed pink foam and expired.   
"Dare I inquire as to what you _did_ intend?"  
"Clearing the way to get this nonsense over with," he answered distractedly, ignoring the gasp from behind him.  
"We must not use the enemy's techniques."  
"Yes well, our side hasn't been doing all that well, considering you're depending on a 16 year old with father issues to save your world." He toed one pinstriped leg, then turned to Snape and asked, "Have you considered labeling your bottles?"  
"As I am the only one with access to them, no."  
"The entire castle has access to them."  
"Only since the cabinet has been demolished."  
"You're exaggerating," Edmund said with a wave to the oaken cabinet doors. "Most of the cabinet is still standing." He opened one door with a flourish and they both looked in, past the shelves of glass, past the rubble of the corridor wall, to Filch, peering in curiously from the other side. The three men glared at one another in silence. Mrs Norris patted a round green vial, clinking it into its neighbor.  
Snape straightened and closed the door. The broken lock swung freely and he looked pained, or perhaps merely gassy, as he rubbed his forehead and said, "You were saying?"  
"Oh, well, pfft. A dustpan and a little effort…Baldric, go deal with it.."  
\---:::---   
An unexpected benefit to what became known as The Incident with the Potions cabinet is that he was no longer summoned to Order meetings. Or, for that matter, staff meetings. So he lectured the sprogs about cell phones (which didn't function) and the internet (which did, but only sporadically and in a back room of the pub and he determined that checking his own email wasn't worth shooing the boys away from the computer and clearing off the popups) and automobiles (which were, in fact, almost as popular a subject) and endured a lecture on Boolean search strings and discovered that he could, in fact, take away House points. Which cut short the Granger girl's lecture nicely.

But being incommunicado, as it were, meant that the final battle caught him rather by surprise. Of course, it caught everyone else by surprise, since they were expecting a showy dramatic attack in June, according to their established schedule of events and it was, in fact, early November when a group of black robed mysterious men trudged up the hill carrying an alarmingly non-mysterious long thin mostly man-sized box. Edmund was able to watch from a tower window as a small group of student and most of the teachers traded glittering and spectacularly useless sprays of color and light with the fashion-deficient invaders.

By the time he made it to the front doors, one was hanging off its hinges and smoldering. Baldric met him with a shovel and a silent nod. _Right then_ he thought, and brought the shovel down firmly on the head of a red-eyed, snake-faced monster. The Potter boy gaped at him. Two more strikes both put the thing at his feet out of its misery and allowed him to vent several months of pent frustration at Dumbledore, Interpol, and his own damn libido for getting him into this mess in the first place. He stood and shook out his shoulders before handing the bespattered shovel back to Baldric. The Potter boy continued to imitate a dying fish and the body at his feet crinkled away from the inside, leaving a snakeskin of dusty hue and an appalling smell.

"So who's for a spot of tea?"

"But ... but the prophecy…" the boy sputtered.

"Yes, well, I've never been much of a believer in destiny. I mean really, what? Three witches standing in a wood waiting for a man to go by so they can shriek that he'll be king. You'd think they'd have better things to do with their time. God knows I certainly do."

The ride on the Hogwart's Express was comfortable; being met at the track by Interpol agents and a subpoena was less so. But with nary a wand or a red-eye in the lot, it was a clear indication that his life was back in its established rut. As was utterly appropriate, really.


End file.
